LOVE AS AN ABRUPT END OF MISERY
grief(anger/rage/the ache in your heart/despair/misery), whatever you wish to call it,
but mainly,
but particularly,
but for the most part (very transparently)
grief
grief chases, you
flee, a cat and mouse
chase, a cop and criminal
chase, a vindictive
chase, a chase with
malevolence branded on its face, a chase
that is righteous, grief
that chases you claiming
that it is just, grief
that chases you,
relentlessly, unceasingly, grief
hunting you with ambition, a chase
around the block, a chase
around and around the world, a chase
circuitous circular cyclical, a chase
till you find the unexpected unpredictable
corner of the circle
and now grief towers over you,
cowering, you guess
six feet, but when you look up
it reaches the skies, till the sun makes its face
incomprehensible and blurry
you try to face it
but your shallow resilience proves meek
wait – let me begin anew,
this poem begins with grief
chasing you to the very corners, all
the norths, souths, easts and wests
of this world
it begins
I. with a lamb(calf/fowl/fawn/kid/me)
a meek(scared/lost never found/hurt/frail) little thing
up for slaughter, at the
altar of a god
II. with suffering, a piece of glass
i bit down upon, till it made
my gums bleed
III. with a guttural scream to a god
i didn't quite believe in, hoping
for him to save me
IV. with resentment as a bitter
popped pill, that scratched
my throat and made me dizzy
V. with horrible mutilation and
disfigurement of who i once was
VI. with bleeding lines down my elbows and
emptying out the contents of my stomach
for a cause
VII. with days and weeks and months
of wading through a cloudy haze
through which i couldn’t see
and it ends with me sitting in a corner,
mouth agape, molasses
dripping down my chin and face,
a few steps, in between
missed, that i do not care to elaborate
upon
and it ends with gentle kisses
on my lips, my cheek, my nose,
and on my temple, like that’s
where he saw god
and it ends with interlocked
fingers, and hair moved
out of my gaze
and it ends with pills
that are bitter, and
pieces of glass
that draw blood, and
bleeding and throwing up
the contents of my gut, and
disfigurement and mutilation and
forgetting who i was,
all of this being
transformed, being
morphed into something
new, all this suffering
reshaping itself into something
unrecognisable, something
sweet, something
sickening, something
saccharine, a cavity
in my tooth, ache which
lived on in my chest, gone
and it ends with feeling
his still soft tender heart, racing,
as if, saying,
as if, admitting,
as if, divulging, with
eyes closed, arms enveloping
i do
i do
i do
oh, such joy in loving and being loved.
Rasika Ghate, 19, Mumbai - India ✯ IG: @ras1kaa
“Rasika is a 19 year old writer aspiring to immerse herself further in the world of publishing. She yearns to be immortalised through her work, but is currently facing the dread of being shackled to the finance world via her academic choices.”